


ojos que no ven

by mortydazzler



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: 5+1 Things, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Incest, Jerry Smith (Mentioned) - Freeform, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortydazzler/pseuds/mortydazzler
Summary: 5 signs that Beth ignores + 1 she can't.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Comments: 28
Kudos: 277





	ojos que no ven

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place at the end of season 2/throughout season 3. I did my best to not fuck up the timeline, but forgive me if there's some inconsistency, I just need this to be out of my brain already.
> 
> I started writing this around 4/13, so I had to throw in a Homestuck reference. Try not to have too many flashbacks if you find it...
> 
> Finally, the title is part of the saying, "Ojos que no ven, corazón que no siente,"-- eyes that don't see, heart that doesn't feel-- which is equivalent to "out of sight, out of mind."

_one._

The house is mostly dark when Beth gets home. She stopped to pick up a few things at the store after her shift, and the only light she can see from the foyer is the glow of the muted TV. She uses it to find her way into the living room, where she’s taken momentarily aback to find her father and her son asleep together on the couch.

Morty is wearing a set of matching pj's that he outgrew ages ago, the pants fitting him more like capris. Beth makes a note to throw them out when she next does his laundry. Rick, on the other hand, is dressed in his usual attire, missing only his lab coat and shoes. The side of Morty’s face is pressed into Rick’s sternum, his body draped over Rick’s sprawling limbs. His expression is relaxed, devoid of its usual anxiety, but he’s still grasping a fistful of blue cable-knit in his sleep. Rick’s face is turned away, his right arm reaching up to rest across Morty’s back.

It’s reminiscent of those photos that surface occasionally on the internet of a baby asleep on its father’s chest, and it rankles Beth, jealousy rising honeylike in her throat, choking her. Very few of the memories she has of Rick are so mundane as taking a nap together. They mostly involve watching him work, or drink, or fight with her mother in the kitchen, their shadows dancing angrily out into the hall where Beth stands, painting streaks of black ire in front of her stockinged feet. 

The Ben & Jerry’s is melting against her stomach where Beth holds the grocery bag, chilling her skin and leaving a dark water stain on her shirt. She’d refused to eat ice cream for decades after Rick left, obstinately shunning it through breakups and birthdays and a June wedding and two young children. If she’s honest with herself, she only buys it now because Rick likes it. (And, whispers a voice at the back of her mind, if there’s ice cream in the house, he’ll have to give a better excuse before he leaves her again.)

The first glass of wine doesn’t help, nor does the second; but Beth’s mother certainly didn’t raise a quitter, and the fourth is really making a difference until Morty stumbles in to get a drink of water, mumbling a sleepy “hi, Mom,” as he runs the tap. Beth doesn’t reply, finding it easier to contain her bitterness rather than temper it. Morty places his glass in the sink, and Beth watches in disbelief as he shuffles _back into the living room_ instead of towards the stairs. There’s a low grumble from Rick as Morty presumably climbs back on top of him, but it doesn’t persist. 

All is quiet again, and Beth decides she’s done for the night. Her glass joins Morty’s, and she floats, dazed, up the stairs to her bedroom. Jerry snores away as she undresses and slides into bed. She nudges him to shut him up, and he rolls over in his sleep, pulling her in to cuddle with him. Beth breathes deeply through her nose, trying to convince herself that this is comforting, and shuts her eyes.

It’s only when she starts breakfast the next morning that Beth realizes she left the ice cream on the counter. There’s a hole in the bag, and when she picks it up, cherry garcia dribbles onto her feet like a reminder.

  
  


_two._

Occasionally, Beth will come across her father while he’s sitting on the couch, watching TV and nursing a beer, and marvel at how unremarkable he looks. He could be any other old man, odd fashion choices aside. On days like those, Beth wonders how Rick Sanchez is considered the terror of the multiverse when his only care seems to be finding the next hit show on interdimensional cable. 

Today is not one of those days. 

Today, Beth and Rick dropped the kids off at home after their session with Dr. Wong and had a great time shooting the shit at some local watering hole. The owners couldn't seem to decide whether it was a gastropub or a tapas bar, but the Spanish influence meant the wine selection was excellent, so Beth couldn't complain. The only issue was that upon returning home, they discovered that Morty and Summer were gone. 

"Looks like Summer is going to - on her way to her little friend's house," Rick says, consulting the computer in the garage. Beth chooses not to ask how exactly he’s tracking her children. "And Morty…" His brow wrinkles in confusion. "Morty’s offworld."

Later, as Rick observes the outside of a nondescript building with grim conviction written across his features, Beth gets yet another glimpse of what her father was doing all that time he was gone. Sure, there’d been the shootout at that sham of a wedding, and the battle with Toxic Rick, and a handful of other shenanigans Beth has had the misfortune of interrupting, but this time is different. Rick isn’t midfight with an alternate version of himself or reeling from the death of his best friend. Beth is watching him plot in real time, his plans coming together from the start. 

Turns out the culprit is another Rick. Somehow hers can tell by the setup of the place alone, reading signs invisible to Beth’s untrained eye. (Maybe if she knew him better, whispers that voice.) Beth struggles with what to feel about these types of interactions, but it’s never pleasant. Seeing other versions of her dad makes her wonder what their dimensions are like-- and going too far down that particular rabbit hole is a recipe for disaster as it is. She clutches the laser pistol that Rick pressed into her hand earlier, looking on as he kicks down a door.

The room it reveals is small, about the size of the Smiths’ living room. Several screens line three of the walls, presenting considerable amounts of information. Morty is slumped against the fourth, his boredom clear until he spots Rick. Beth thinks they have some kind of weird telepathic conversation about what to do, because Morty nods subtly after a few moments. 

This Other-Rick is fairly standard in appearance, except that his sweater is a few shades darker blue. The sudden noise makes him turn from where he’s typing at one of the consoles to determine its source. When he catches sight of Beth, he looks intrigued.

“C-137,” he acknowledges. “You brought - _urrp -_ you brought your Beth with you?”

“Couldn’t swing the mob and pitchforks, Summer’s out, and I didn’t - like hell was I gonna bring Jerry. Can we get this over with? I-I’m especially not in the mood to talk to myself right now."

"Sure thing. I've already got what I wanted. Did you know--" 

Rick cuts him off. “More than likely. Listen, I’ve been through a lo- _oughh_ -tta shit today, pal. I’ve been a pickle, I’ve been in a firefight with a world-weary rebel warrior as said pickle in rat armor of my own design, I’ve been subject to this bullshit, and most depressingly, I’ve been stone-cold fucking sober." 

“Eugh, my condolences,” interjects the other Rick.

“Tell me about it. But the only - the one thing I haven’t been today,” Rick continues, “is outplayed, and what I ain't gonna do is tolerate you wasting one more nanosecond of my time. _Now_ , Morty!”

Other-Rick’s eyes widen in surprise, his gaze snapping over to where Morty sits handcuffed on the floor. Or rather, the spot where he sat. Morty, evidently having freed his hands, has been creeping over towards the door behind Other-Rick, and he stands once noticed, rushing towards his former captor with a yell. Other-Rick raises his brow, hardly afraid, a quip partway out of his mouth-- giving Rick plenty of time to roll his eyes before he shoots him in the head. 

"Morty, if I ever fall for - if anyone ever gets me on that one, don't mourn me, I fucking deserve it."

“Okay,” Morty says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “He - he didn’t even get to carry out his plan, or whatever. The whole thing just seemed really contrived, like a bad storyline written at 2 a.m. He did seem really hung up on how you took down the Council of Ricks, though, had, had a lot of questions about that one. N-not like I know the full story on that though, right? He probably should’ve just asked you.”

“Mm,” Rick muses, “the answer would’ve been the same regardless, I think.” He waves his gun at the corpse. “All he did was, y’know, take the long way round.” 

He ruffles Morty’s hair. “Congrats on getting out of those cuffs, though, I didn’t expect it.”

“Y-yeah, well, practice makes perfect, I guess,” Morty grins for a few seconds, until his eyes land on Beth. Then embarrassment flickers across his face. “So, uh, how was your afternoon? Did you guys have fun?”

“Yeah, I’d say so,” Beth smiles, reaching out to pull her son into a rare hug. Morty stills against her at first, but his arms wrap around her once he figures it out. Maybe if she hugs him more often, he won’t feel so anxious that he pees himself in class anymore. Or something like that. It’s been awhile since her last drink, but there’s enough alcohol left in her to wave away the afterimage of that therapist, the imaginary psychobabble that’s lodged itself in her mind like a splinter. What a joke.

Rick rummages through Other-Rick’s equipment, searching for anything valuable enough to take with them. Meanwhile, Beth busies herself with tucking her laser pistol into the back of her waistband, feeling a bit badass at the sensation even though she didn’t have to use it. Finding little of value, Rick shoots a portal at the wall. Beth does not look at the body, nor does she examine too closely the beeping object that Rick throws to the ground as he steps through. She simply follows him, loath to be left behind.

_three._

Rick’s ship is unexpectedly comfortable for something made out of repurposed garbage. Beth reclines in the back seat, watching planets and stars drift by in a fascinating trail of light. If she turns her head, she can see most of her father’s face from this angle. He looks more tranquil than usual, and why wouldn’t he? They've just spent several hours luxuriating in one of the finest off-planet spas there is, this time ignoring any suspicious machines advertising detoxifying effects, and it felt good. Just her, Dad, and the kids, hanging out for Mother’s Day. 

Summer’s next to her, dozing lightly against the window. Long car rides have always put her to sleep. When she was a particularly cranky toddler, wrangling Summer into her carseat and driving around town would avert the worst tantrum before it started. Beth smiles at the memory and wonders where the time went. 

Up front, Morty sits in his usual spot next to Rick. There’s no music playing, so Beth can hear the quiet clicking of his fidget cube. It seems like a decent outlet for him, one of the few good ideas Jerry has had recently, even if it did probably come from a Buzzfeed article. 

“Hey, sweetie,” Rick says, catching Beth’s eye in the rearview mirror. “You hungry?”

Beth, as usual, has a vested interest in prolonging this outing. Given that her father is here and Jerry is not, Rick’s mood won’t be nearly as erratic as it would otherwise. She nods, trying to appear aloof. “Yeah, I could eat.”

“Cool. Morty, look and see if there’s any diners around here, I - it’s been a while since your grandpa graced Sector A9053-6 with his presence.”

“Sure, um,” Morty fiddles with the console in front of him. “There’s one coming up… i-it’s a 4.5 on RateMyCakes, lots of reviews? Seems pretty legit.”

A representation of the restaurant pops up in a holographic display on the dash. Rick changes course in lieu of a response.

Beth raises an eyebrow. “RateMyCakes?”

“It’s - it’s an app that some iteration of me came up with to gauge the quality of the many, many hole-in-the-wall diners across the multiverse,” Rick explains. “Legend has it that his original Morty got poisoned on some planet where they season food with arsenic, instead of - _urrp -_ instead of salt. You can take a look, if you want.” 

"What about him? Did he not order something with salt in it?"

"As someone who shares his identity to some extent, if I'm gonna die, it's not gonna be poison that kills me, sweetie. We take measures to avoid that."

"Uh-huh." Beth leans forward between the seats, peering down at the screen. It’s displaying a 4 out of 5 cakes review by user “OohSheRicc,” stating, “I got stabbed here. The cakes were fresh and the coffee was good but I got stabbed here. Would consider going back.”

The ship begins to descend onto an asteroid, fairly standard in appearance, towards the parking lot of what could pass for any strip mall on Earth. “Of course, the guy’s fuckin’ loaded by now and stopped actually giving a shit about updating it-- undue carelessness here being a persisting trait with him, I guess-- so there’s mad bugs, but people still use it. Dunno why I, _I_ can never be the one to have these ideas. I’d at least automate the process, hire some developer Mortys, I dunno. S’just wasteful to leave something like that unattended to.” 

They land roughly, ending up sideways in a parking spot near the diner. The shock jolts Summer awake. 

“Jeez, Grandpa, how many years have you been driving again? You’re gonna give me, like, an actual brain injury one of these days.”

“Not relevant till it happens, Sum-Sum. Shake it off, we got space breakfast to eat, baby! Just, uh, keep your distance from the clientele. Apparently the inhabitants of the surrounding star system reeeeeeally value their personal space.”

Once they've been seated, it doesn't take long for a harried-looking waitress to come take their orders. Though she isn't made of metal, every visible feature of hers is silver and shiny-- except her eyes, which have normal white sclera with brilliant purple irises. "Glaeve" is scrawled across her nametag in loopy handwriting. (At least, Beth thinks that's what it says. The letters move around a little when she looks at them.) 

"What'll it be?" she asks, and despite the fact that she's clearly annoyed, her voice manages to be unnaturally pleasant to Beth’s ears. 

Rick is the only one who gets exclusively pancakes, everyone else opting to get eggs, bacon, or sausage on the side. Glaeve is attentive and dutifully refills the family's juices and coffees, since it takes a while for their orders to come out. 

Morty makes it through his eggs and all but one pancake before he slides out of the booth and makes a beeline for the bathroom. When he doesn't come back, Rick's expression morphs from annoyance into unease. 

"Gonna go see if he - if he fell in or what," he says, rising from his seat. "I have to say, it'll be a one out of five cakes from me if the toilets here end up eating customers alive, no matter how good the food is." He strides purposefully off towards the back of the restaurant. 

Several minutes later, Rick and Morty emerge from the bathroom at last. Rick looks about the same, but Morty is significantly worse for wear. His eyes are red-rimmed, and he's rubbing at his face with the back of one hand. Beth feels a pang of secondhand embarrassment when she realizes he’s trailing Rick slightly, clinging to his labcoat like a child. Rick reaches behind himself to plant a hand between Morty’s shoulder blades, nudging him into the booth first. Once seated, Morty shoves a hand in his pocket, presumably to retrieve his fidget cube.

“Morty, are you alright? What happened?” Beth asks, concern lacing her voice. Summer is unexpectedly quiet next to her, observing her brother with an unreadable expression.

Morty glances up like he’s just remembered her presence, and bless him, he offers her a wobbly little smile, as if she’s the one that needs comforting. “Yeah, Mom,” he says, picking at his bacon one-handed. “Just, um, just an anxiety attack, is all. I - I feel better now, sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Morty,” says Summer. “Shit happens, right, Grandpa Rick?”

“Yeah,” Rick agrees, “every - all the damn time. S’alright, Mort.” He places a hand on Morty’s shoulder and gives it a few pats, which appears to abate some of his anxiety; after a few moments, he lets it drop. Then Rick starts going on about syrup to pancake ratios, and Beth infers that the topic has closed. By the end of the meal, Morty seems mostly back to normal.

However, Beth doesn’t miss her father’s tight grip on the steering wheel on the ride home, nor how he whisks Morty away as soon as the ship touches down in the garage. She’s aware that, as a mother, it’s in her job description to comfort her children when they’re in distress. But since Rick insisted on making himself a prominent figure-- _the_ most prominent figure-- in Morty’s life, she figures he’s doing a better job than she would anyway. 

_four._

Laundry is a boring chore, but Beth doesn't mind it. When she was a mom to two children under five, the garage was often the only place she could be alone for a few minutes while the kids were playing or down for a nap. Of course, since it's also her father's lab these days, she has to be more careful about what time she does the laundry, since she could interrupt an experiment or let a specimen escape by coming in at the wrong time. 

Today is Thursday, which is Morty's laundry day. She sets down the hamper for a second to knock on the door. No response means all clear, as far as Beth is concerned, and she's proven right by the empty room before her. 

Loading the washer is quick work. Luckily for Beth, Morty shows no signs of changing his wardrobe anytime soon. She tosses in yellow shirt after yellow shirt and then some of his sleep clothes, including those too-small ones that she'll wash before sending them to Goodwill. Morty might be angry with her, but really, he never wants to throw anything away until it's threadbare for some reason and it's getting ridiculous. The Smiths aren't lacking for money, so why hang onto things they've outgrown? 

Underneath the shirts is a pile of Morty's socks, and Beth winces. Surprisingly, though, none of them are calcified by substances she'd rather not acknowledge. She'd had to make Jerry talk to their son about the joys of puberty (and the consequences of it that Beth had to deal with) a while back, and it seems in his absence that the conversation finally sank in. Maybe someone finally bought the kid some tissues. 

Beth knits her brow when she reaches the bottom of the hamper. There's a black shirt lying there, inside out, that she doesn't think belongs to Morty. She's never seen him wear it, if it does. Turning it right side out, she inspects it carefully. 

It's a band tee, that much is evident from looking at the back of it. "The Flesh Curtains" is written across the top, and Beth knows she's heard that name before. There's a list of tour dates and locations, many of which are in languages she doesn't understand. Then she flips the shirt over and gasps. 

The picture on the front was taken from a poster, and underneath the band's name are three unmistakable figures with their respective instruments. Birdperson on guitar and screeching into the mic, Squanchy tearing up the drums, and of course, her father confidently playing the bass. How could she have forgotten? Beth distantly recalls sifting through pictures after Rick had left her with Mom, taking in her father's carefree expression in every frame. She traces it now, reverent. 

Why does Morty have this shirt? It's a large, which clearly wouldn't fit him. Rick could have given it as a gift, Beth muses. For a moment, she considers keeping it, telling Morty it's lost if he comes looking. Then she comes to her senses. 

It's just a shirt. Just a piece of cloth that she has no reason to be attached to. Beth has plenty of shirts. She turns it inside out again to protect the print and throws it on top of the rest, along with a color catcher sheet to prevent the dye from bleeding. Days later, she sees Rick wearing it, lounging on the couch as he waits for his regular clothes to dry. It makes him look younger.

Morty must have given it back to him, then. Her father can be careless about where his belongings end up. See, Beth says to herself, no need to make it weird. 

_five._

Beth walks into the dining room and sets a basket of breadsticks on the table next to the spaghetti. Taking her seat, she looks at her family. All members are accounted for today: herself, Rick, Summer, and--

"Morty, oh my god, what happened to your neck?" Summer asks, stifling a laugh as she stares at her brother. 

Morty, clearly confused, looks down to the collar of his yellow t-shirt, and his eyes widen in dismay. A smattering of small red and purple marks dot his neck, their origin obvious to anyone who's ever gotten a hickey before. Among them are larger, circular welts, like Morty pulled a bunch of suction cups off his skin recently. 

"Yeah, Morty," Rick says with barely contained glee. "Why don't you tell us what happened?" 

"O-oh, um," Morty stammers. Beth notices he's begun to wring his hands under the table, probably pulling at the hem of his shirt like he did as a child. "Well, I - we - we were on an adventure today, and it was this beach planet? And I, you know, was just thinking about stuff, walking along in the sand, and I didn't listen to - didn't hear Rick telling me to, not to go near the water, because it was dangerous, and this-- this--" 

"Bloffian dodecapus jumped right out and caught him," Rick cackles. "Oh man, I wish you could've seen it-- the way he flailed, holy shit. I warned you about the dodecapi, bro, I told you, dog! They don't give a - a _single_ fuck, they can survive up to 48 hours on land. And twelve arms means a whole lotta suckers on those bad boys." 

The glare Morty levels at him is baleful, but it only serves to fuel Rick's laughter at his expense. When he finally calms down, Rick's grin is downright conspiratorial as he stares back at Morty. 

"Sorry kid," he says, "that's what you get for not listening to grandpa Rick."

At this, Morty flushes, a rosy pink racing from his cheeks all the way down to the marks on his neck. "I know," he mumbles before he breaks eye contact, digging his fork into his spaghetti. 

Beth raises an eyebrow, feeling like she's still missing something even after hearing the story. She glances at Summer, who's already scrolling Instagram, not picking up on her mother's suspicion or choosing not to care. 

"Mmm, these breadsticks are great, Beth," Rick says, mouth full. "Garlic butter was a nice touch."

Beth smiles and takes a sip of her wine, grateful to have literally anything else to think about. 

"Thanks, Dad," she says. "I'm glad you liked them." 

  
  
  


.

.

.

_plus one:_

Beth's alarm clock has seen better days. It's battered from being smacked into silence and thrown against walls, its cheerful coat of red paint chipped in several places. Today, it seems, it's chosen to cease functioning at last; 6 a.m. comes and goes without a sound. 

Not that Beth minds. She had a little too much to drink the night before, and her hangover looms insistently over her. There are no missed calls on her phone. It's not an unusual occurrence for Beth to arrive late to the hospital, so she doesn't bother to let them know anymore. Instead, she just stays longer, closing the clinic down in the evenings and taking on extra paperwork. If she's bone tired when she gets home, it makes it easier to pretend things are still normal. Like there could still be someone on the other side of the bed. Like Rick said when he got back from collapsing the government, the things you miss when they're not around can shock you. 

It’s around eight when Beth finally stirs, puttering around unhurried. She’s turned off the light in her room and is just about to exit it when she hears two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs. Quickly, she takes a step to the side, observing the hallway via the mirror across from the open door. It’s Rick and Morty, of course. She supposes her son didn’t even make it to first period today. They stop outside of Morty’s room, leaning against the wall. Rick’s back is to her.

“--and you _still_ haven’t made up for it, as far as I’m concerned,” Rick is saying, waving his hands around. “I mean, how am I - who else am I gonna get those plants from, Morty? They only grow on the one planet, and - and now we’re liable to be shot on fucking sight there! Those fields are flat, Morty, they’ll see us no matter where we are!”

“Rick,” Morty whines, “can’t you just grow them yourself i-if we get a sample?”

Rick slams his fist against the wall. “Of _course_ I could, but much like lugging you around, it’d be a royal pain in my ass. These ain’t your mother’s houseplants, Morty, they can’t just sit around collecting dust and getting watered once every two weeks. There’s - they’re delicate, they require specific _conditions_.”

“Okay, s-so we just portal back in, grab a sample, and then I’ll help you take care of them. It’d be easy,” says Morty placatingly. “W-would that make it up to you?” 

“Maybe. I’ll have to see if I have the materials to grow them.” Some of the tension seeps out of Rick’s posture. “Just-- don’t go laying your grubby little hands on every shiny thing you see next time, alright?”

“I - I didn’t mean to get caught, but--” Morty fidgets and produces a sizable red jewel from somewhere on his person, holding it up for Rick to see. “Look, they only confiscated one of them! Is it - d’you think it’s really valuable, Rick?”

“You little shit,” Rick says, but his tone is fonder than it is angry. He gets down on one knee to inspect the gem. “I dunno, I don’t recognize it. But I know a guy on Ghileb-7 who could tell me. Hope he’s still alive, actually. They were on the brink of civil war last time I was there.”

Beth has never known Morty to be a calculating person. In fact, she really wouldn’t think him capable of it, given how he’s such an open book. But he’s looking at Rick with a self-assured half smile, like he knows he’ll get what he wants. “Hmm, but y-you’re gonna have to pay the finder’s fee first.”

“Really.” Rick sounds thoroughly unimpressed. “I have a feeling I know where you’re going with - where this is headed.”

“Probably,” Morty says, and then he’s scooting forward into her father’s personal space, looping his arms around Rick’s neck. Beth’s stomach roils, pieces of a puzzle she’d long ignored coming together as her son pulls Rick into a kiss, obviously not for the first time.

_No, no, no, please, no, I just got him back…_

The mirror blurs as Beth fights back hot tears, struggling not to make a noise. She lets out a shuddery breath and begins to weigh her options. It’s not practical to jump out and confront them now, she knows that. Rick has mentioned his memory gun more than once, and Beth is certain she’d be staring down the barrel in the time it took to ask what the fuck they think they’re doing. But… how would she begin to bring this up later without it going the exact same way?

“That do it?” asks Rick after a minute or two.

“Yeah, I - I’d say so,” Morty replies, a bit out of breath. “For now.”

“Great!” Rick says brightly, and Morty looks smug for all of two seconds before Rick picks him up, pressing him against the wall. Morty’s legs wrap eagerly around Rick’s thin waist. “Now you can pay me in advance for all the extra work _I’m_ about to do because you fucked up.” With that, he steps back, upsetting Morty’s balance and making him yelp. Then the pair disappears into Morty’s room, door kicked shut, leaving Beth alone with her thoughts.

Really, Beth concludes after some thought, it might be better that she doesn't say anything for right now. She’s not worried for Rick’s well-being, but Morty… well, he _seemed_ willing, consenting, but so do, say, cultists. And Rick is far more capable of literally altering her family’s reality than any cult leader ever could. She puts her hands to her temples, feeling the weight of this knowledge settle onto her shoulders.

If there’s no immediate action she can take, then Beth figures the least she can do is get the fuck out of the house. She sits on her bed, then jumps up suddenly, making sure to bump into things like she’s getting dressed in a hurry. Coat, keys, wallet, and Beth is rushing down the stairs, slamming the door behind her with a curse. 

The drive to work is a blur; it’s almost nine by the time Beth pulls into her spot next to Davin’s Kia. The steering wheel is cool against her forehead as she contemplates what she’s about to do-- go on with her life like nothing even happened. Won’t her family be irreparably fucked up no matter what she does? Isn’t she just as selfish as her father is? Will he go to the same lengths to keep Morty as she would to keep him from abandoning her a third time? Beth sighs miserably, a conversation echoing in her mind. 

_Am I evil?_

_Worse. You’re smart._

Of course she’s smart; she’s Rick Sanchez’s daughter, and she resembles him more than anyone else. If there’s a way out of this, Beth will find it and take it, no matter the cost. And if Rick weren’t also an exceptional liar, well… she’d almost believe her own promises.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave feedback/comments/kudos if you liked it.
> 
> Edit: Inspiration for the RateMyCakes review comes from [this image.](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/bd/62/7f/bd627f578b683a7f010ebae73867d2d2.jpg)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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